


Celebratory

by avantegarda



Series: It's the New World, Darling-A 19th-20th Century AU [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Christmas, F/M, Family, Fluff, Gen, i refuse to explain why i am writing about christmas in june
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-05-13 07:42:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19246816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avantegarda/pseuds/avantegarda
Summary: Overbearing relatives, first love, and a vast amount of scheming makes for a perfectly typical Finwean family Christmas.





	1. Christmas Eve Eve

**Author's Note:**

> Excuse you I am not "back on my Victorian house-party bullshit" if I never got off it in the first place.
> 
> This AU has a blog now! Look, [here it is!](http://www.thegatesfamilyfiles.tumblr.com)

The amount of scheming that goes on in my family must be seen to be believed, especially amongst the younger generation. My brother Fingon, who likes to consider himself brave and dashing, is constantly doing things like attempting to domesticate foxes and exploring abandoned tunnels in the middle of the night. My sister Aredhel specializes in harebrained schemes such as “stealing Granddad’s brandy” and “pouring castor oil in soup.” The nonsense my cousins on Uncle Fëanor’s side of the family get up to cannot be described in polite company, and even my cousin Finrod, by far my closest chum and a thoroughly agreeable sort, has been known to display a considerable streak of the recklessness we Gateses are known for.

I was rather hoping that our Christmas celebrations in 1884 would be relatively free of antics, as I’d spent several exhausting weeks preparing for and then taking my end-of-term exams at St. Francis. I felt fairly confident about my arithmetic and history exams in particular, but that didn’t change the fact that all that time studying had fried my nerves to a crisp. And being around my family on the train ride to Surrey hadn’t helped much either.

It had been chucking down rain all day, turning the bricks of Doubletree Manor a rather festive blood red, and during the short walk from the carriage to the front door I managed to become soaked to the skin as Aredhel refused to lift the umbrella high up enough for me. The minute the butler showed us to our rooms, I tossed on a dry shirt and bolted for the parlor before anyone could start bothering me again.

There was unfortunately someone already in the parlor, facing the cracking fire, and I considered bolting again before realizing it was none other than my cousin Finrod. We’d come down on the train from St. Francis together the previous day, but hadn’t seen hide nor hair of one another since, and I was keen to have someone outside my immediate family to talk to.

I cleared my throat and he turned, offering me a brilliant smile. “What ho, Turgon!” he said brightly.

“What ho!” I replied, with equal cheer.

“What ho!”

“What ho!”

We looked at each other for a moment, before dissolving into laughter.

“Goodness, it feels like days since we’ve talked, even though it was only yesterday! Has your family been as delighted to see you as mine was?” Finrod said at last, wiping his eyes. “Mum clung to me as though she thought I would bolt like a rabbit. And she was quite horrified by the fact that I’m only an inch shorter than Dad now.”

“You’re still shorter than your Dad?” I asked in mock horror. “My father and I are precisely the same height now, and my growth shows no signs of stopping.” My excessive growing was rather a joke among my immediate family and had been ever since I’d surpassed Fingon in height, though I was slightly concerned that if I kept it up at this rate I’d soon have to bend over double to walk through doors.

“That’s always been your problem. You are so tall and thin you look as though you’re made of taffy and someone has been stretching you out,” laughed Finrod. “But you didn’t answer my question. Have Aunt Anairë and Uncle Fingolfin been smothering you with affection?”

“Well, that’s the trouble.” I lowered my voice, cautiously glancing about. “It’s bally Aunt Mirë. She’s visiting for the  _ entire holiday.” _

“Aunt Mirë? Which one is...ah, she’s from your mother’s side of the family, isn’t she?”

“Precisely. Mum’s elder sister. She was married to a Portuguese shipping magnate back in Goa, but he died recently, so now she goes about inflicting herself on unsuspecting house-parties.”

“Now, now, old fellow,” Finrod said disapprovingly. “Show a bit of sympathy. The poor woman has lost her husband.”

“I am aware of that, and I really am trying, but it’s jolly difficult to show any sympathy when Aunt Mirë is such an unbearable snob and is always  criticizing my posture and complaining about bland British food. She’ll likely spend the whole holiday fussing about Granddad’s cook not being able to make a proper  _ ambot tik. _ Where she expects us to be able to get a shark from is beyond me.”

“A shark? Blimey, your mother’s side of the family certainly has interesting tastes.” 

“Yes, they are all fascinating and cultured people, but I do wish some of them had slightly lower standards. If one _will_ come to England for Christmas, one should jolly well put up with a roast with two veg and plum pudding for dinner, I say.”  
Finrod wrinkled his nose. “After all that boarding-school stodge we’ve been putting up with, even the blandest roast with two veg sounds all right to me. Speaking of which, do you know when dinner is going to be served?”

“Not nearly soon enough, old boy.”

 

Granny and Granddad had spared no extravagance when it came to the Christmas decor, as usual; all available surfaces in the dining room had been draped with holly and tinsel, and candles glowed from every corner. The small ones were in raptures, and even those of us who were no longer children looked considerably cheered as we all took our places at the table.

“All it needs is snow instead of this endless rain,” Aunt Earwen remarked, once Grace had been said and wine had been poured, “and this place would truly be fairyland.”

“If only Mother were here to see it,” Uncle Fëanor said softly, to no one in particular. “She had so few English Christmases.” 

I could see Dad’s jaw tense—Miriel, Granddad’s first wife, was quite a sore spot for the family, as Uncle Fëanor quite plainly thought that Granddad never should have remarried and, as a result, Dad and Uncle Finarfin should not exist. 

“You are quite correct, my boy,” Grandfather Finwë replied, with a gentle smile. “Your mother would have loved to be here in person, to see how brilliant and successful her son and grandchildren have become. But I am certain that she is smiling down on us.” He stood, and raised his glass. “To Miriel Serindë, then; may she and the other angels bless us this season.”

We all raised our glasses, murmuring “To Miriel.” All of us, that is, except Uncle Fëanor, who looked distinctly annoyed.

“It’s  _ Therindë _ ,” he said.

Everyone turned to look at him in surprise, except Aunt Nerdanel, who rolled her eyes with exasperation. “Darling, I don’t think the middle of a family dinner is the correct time to be fussing about linguistics.”

“Dinner or no, if one is going to say a Spanish name one should try and pronounce it  _ correctly.  _ If King Alfonso were to show up to this party do you suppose he’d go about anglicizing my mother’s middle name to  _ Serindë?” _

“If the King of Spain were to come to this party I think he would be thoroughly disappointed,” Aunt Mirë sniffed. “Lady Indis, you must have your cook use more chilies in these dishes.”

Granny Indis, always the diplomat, nodded politely, though it was plain her sensibilities were offended by the very notion of using any form of chili peppers in our good solid English meals. “And I think you are quite right, Fëanor. We  _ should  _ try to pronounce your dear mother’s name correctly.” She stood, raising her glass again. “To Miriel  _ Therindë,  _ a very dear woman. Happy Christmas.”

Uncle Fëanor looked torn between satisfaction and irritation, but raised his glass nonetheless. “Happy Christmas.”

 

The pudding had been eaten, the tree decorated, and the children put to bed by the time Finrod and I finished our after-dinner game of chess and wandered back in the direction of the sitting room. There was a faint glow and muffled sounds of laughter coming from behind the door, and when Finrod pushed it open we were greeted by the sight of Maedhros, Fingon, and Maglor, all lounging about on the rug, drinks in hand. Maedhros was pontificating about something, his glass rather perilously dangling from his fingers. 

“No, you see, it’s quite fascinating, because if one really  _ looks  _ at the effects of the Education Act on children in the slums…”

“Ah, children!” Fingon called with a hint of relief in his voice, spotting us. “Come join us for a drink, and distract our dear cousin from rambling on about law for hours on end.”

“Children?” Finrod said, nose in the air. “We are both seventeen years old, I’ll have you know. If we lived in another country we might be married by now.”

“But not to one another, I assume,” Maedhros said with a wink, pouring two more glasses of wine. “Have a seat, fellows, and we’ll let you ramble on a bit about whatever subject interests you most. We let Maglor lecture us about Wagner’s  _ Ring Cycle  _ for a good half hour, Fingon had a turn to tell us about various expeditions in the Himalayas, and as I’m sure you could tell what I was going on about. What’s on your mind, lads?”

Finrod took a sip of his wine, his expression dreamy. “Love.”

“Love, is it?” said Fingon, grinning wickedly. “Do tell, old thing. Found a new sweetheart, have you?”

“Well, I might not go as far as to call her  _ that,”  _ Finrod replied, reddening. “But...well, you know. I quite fancy her.”

“I  _ don’t  _ know,” I said, not entirely able to keep the irritation out of my voice. “Why didn’t you tell me there was a girl you fancied, Finrod? I wouldn’t have let it slip.”

“Well, it’s quite a recent development, don’t you know. As a matter of fact, we’ve only just met.”

This did not ease my annoyance. “Only just met? And you’re going on about  _ love?” _

“Poetic license, Turgon, poetic license! I suppose it may be a  _ bit  _ soon for discussions of love, but I really do think it has potential.”

“I envy you, young Finrod,” Maglor said, sighing theatrically. “A chance for new love! Personally I fear that after Olya I shall never love again.”

Maedhros rolled his eyes. “I’ve told you a thousand times, Maglor, Olya Petrova was an utter bore, you can do much better. Now stop wallowing in poetic tragedy and listen to our dear cousin. What do you think, Finrod; does this girl fancy you back?”

Finrod shook his head. “I simply can’t tell. She is one of those girls who is charming to absolutely  _ everyone,  _ so it’s difficult to say if she treats me any differently. You three fellows must have girls falling in love with you all the time—how do you tell?”

“Well, if she throws roses onto the stage when you’re done playing, that’s usually a good sign…”

“Hush, Maglor, you are utterly useless.” Maedhros leaned forward, regarding Finrod intently. “The way you can tell, my boy, is if she goes out of her way to be around you, find excuses to talk to you, brushes against your arm when she walks by…”

Finrod was blushing furiously at this point, and I’m sure I was as well, if only out of secondhand embarrassment. “Well, that’s...useful. Thank you, Maedhros. But I wouldn’t like to spend the whole evening fussing about my romantic exploits. What do you say, shall we open up the piano and have some music? I’m in the mood for a few Yuletide carols.”

“Now  _ that  _ is a suggestion I like,” Maglor declared, leaping to his feet and bounding over to the piano. “Come sit with me, Finrod, and we’ll make it a duet. All right, merry gentlemen, you all know the words…”

He played a few quick, beautiful notes, and we all raised our voices, heedless of whoever might be trying to sleep.

“ _ God rest ye merry gentlemen, _

_ “Let nothing you dismay…” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you folks were lying awake wondering how I was going to work the Th/S drama into this au. Fortunately, my ridiculousness Never Rests.


	2. Christmas Eve

 

I didn’t remember finding my way to my room at the end of the evening, but I must have done somehow, for I awoke at six o’clock the next morning on top of the covers, still in my clothes, and with a nasty, splitting headache. Further attempts at sleep were unsuccessful, and so I tossed on a dressing gown and made my way to the library, hoping that a spot of light reading would cure what ailed me.

Tragically, I hadn’t so much as gotten  _ Pride and Prejudice  _ halfway off the shelf before the library door creaked open and I saw the one person I was desperate to avoid.

“Turukáno!” Aunt Mirë boomed.

I don’t know if you have ever had your name shouted at you in Portuguese at seven o’clock in the morning when you have a terrible morning head, but I can assure you it is deeply unpleasant. Wincing, I turned and bowed slightly in Aunt Mirë’s direction. “Good morning, Auntie.”

“Good morning, Turukáno. Stand up straight, you’ll never find a good wife if you slouch like a beggar.” I straightened my spine as best I could while Aunt Mirë continued to frown at me. “You look terrible.”

“Er...yes. I’m afraid I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

“Is that so? Nor did I, as a matter of fact. Were you also kept awake by a group of young wastrels shrieking out ‘Good King Wenceslas’ at three o’clock in the morning?”

I swallowed, hoping she wasn’t aware that I had been one of the young wastrels. “No, no I just had a bit of a headache.”

“Hm. You stay away from that awful English beer, Turukáno. It turns young men into complete fools.”

_ The young men in this family don’t need much help with that, _ I thought. Aloud I said, “I say, Auntie, couldn’t you call me Turgon? It is what I was christened, after all.”

“Yes, I’m aware that your mother has become quite thoroughly anglicized. But your Portuguese name is much more elegant.  _ Turgon  _ sounds like a sort of mineral.”

“You and my Uncle Feanor have a great deal in common,” I said, completely without thinking. “Perhaps you two ought to have tea together sometime and spend hours correcting one another’s pronunciation.”

Aunt Mirë looked flustered at the very idea—Uncle Feanor does tend to have that effect on people, I’ve noticed. “That is a very improper suggestion, Turukáno. I believe I will return to my room now, I suggest you do the same.”

She turned and stalked away, leaving me to collapse into one of the overstuffed library chairs and wonder, were I to have a next life, if it would be possible for me to come back as a jellyfish with no family at all.

 

Seeing as I was the only one who had been unfortunate enough to wake up at the crack of dawn, I had to wait until ten o’clock for the rest of the family to trickle downstairs for breakfast. Their arrival did not exactly help my headache, as my cousins cannot refrain from being loud at any hour of the day: Maglor had, for reasons known only to himself, brought his violin to the breakfast table, and Celegorm insisted on telling an extremely long, loud, and rambling story about his dog and the priest’s cat.

“Honestly, you lot should have been there. Huan chased the bally beast for half a mile, and Father O’Flaherty said...Bloody  _ hell,  _ Maglor,” Celegorm said at last, with distaste. “Why are you playing the violin while we are trying to eat breakfast?”

Maglor shrugged expressively. “Why are you eating breakfast while I am trying to play the violin?”

“He has a point, you know,” put in Finrod, who had been listening rapturously. Finrod’s respect for our twenty-year-old cousin borders on hero-worship, something I find either amusing or irritating, depending on the circumstances. On four hours of sleep, it was decidedly irritating.

They are certainly an odd bunch, Uncle Feanor’s children. Other than Maedhros, to a certain extent, not one of them seems capable of behaving like a human being for more than five minutes. And yet, my siblings and cousins all seem to absolutely worship them. 

“Put the violin away, Maglor, there’s a good lad,” Fingon said pleadingly. “I haven’t got it in me to be cultured this morning.”

With a loud, dramatic sigh, Maglor gently placed his violin under his chair before tucking into his cheese turnovers with extraordinary gusto. Grandfather’s cook may not have been able to make  _ ambot tik,  _ but she could certainly slap together a good breakfast, and even in my rather queasy state I wolfed down an impressive number of sausages.

I had rather been hoping, after breakfast, to find Finrod and have a good old complain about Aunt Mirë, but unfortunately this was not to be, as I was roped into playing Blindman’s Buff in the garden with my twelve-year-old brother Argon and an assortment of our younger cousins. That it had been raining for days and the ground was pure mud didn’t seem to bother them, particularly Amrod and Amras, who delighted in tackling everyone to the ground and soaking them to the skin. It took me nearly an hour of soaking in the tub afterwards to get all the mud off, before I made my way to the library to see if Finrod was about.

 

As I’d expected, Finrod  _ was  _ in the library. What I did not expect was to find him furiously snogging a young woman.

I could feel my face burning—at the tender age of seventeen, I had yet to kiss a girl, and the thought of doing so filled me with a combination of excitement and dread. Finrod seemed to have gotten past the dread, as he was kissing her with great enthusiasm, and had nearly knocked the ruffled cap off her yellow curls.

Before I could sneak away, Finrod had noticed me, disentangling himself from the girl’s embrace with a cheerful grin. “Hullo, Turgon! I don’t believe you’ve met Miss Amarië Lavallois? She is Granny Indis’ new lady’s maid.”

“H...how do you do,” I managed.

“‘Allo,” Amarie said, dropping into a graceful curtsey. She didn’t seem any more embarrassed than Finrod to be caught in such a compromising position, though perhaps the French had different views on that sort of thing.

“Amarie hails from Rouen,” Finrod informed me. “She plans to open up a millinery shop in London once she’s saved enough of her earnings. Isn’t that brilliant?”

“Brilliant,” I echoed. “Listen, Finrod, I was hoping to talk to you, but if you are too busy…”

“Nonsense. Amarië doesn’t mind, do you, dear?”

Amarië shrugged. “ _ Je m'en fiche. _ ”

“There you are, then. What’s troubling you, old chum?”

I rolled my eyes. “What do you think? Aunt Mirë.”

“Ah, the old battleaxe again. And I’m assuming it would be impolite for you to just ignore her for the rest of the holiday?”

“I’m afraid Mum would never go for that.”

“Then perhaps we ought to think of some sort of scheme. Something to embarrass her a tiny bit, you know, and get her out of your hair for a while.”

“Oh, no. Absolutely not,” I said, shaking my head firmly. “I draw the line at scheming, it never works. Do you remember when you were ten and decided to release those coyotes from the zoo because you felt sorry for them?”

“They looked so sad,” Finrod said wistfully. “But I see your point. Don’t worry, I shan’t rope you into any schemes. Say, I believe the rest of the cousins are setting up a game of charades in the parlor; shall we go and join them? Amarie, would you like to come?”

“I cannot, Monsieur Gates. I must return to work,” said Amarie. She reached up and kissed Finrod on the cheek, making me look away in embarrassment. “But I will come and see you later, yes? You can tell me more about your horrible English boarding school.”

“Of course, my darling.” Finrod kissed her again, then linked his arm through mine with a broad smile. “Shall we go watch our family humiliate themselves?”

“My favorite pastime, old boy.”

 

We could hear shouts of laughter from down the hall before we even reached the door of the parlor. Inside, Celegorm was bowing with a great many flourishes, having apparently just completed an excellent rendition of Joan of Arc being burned at the stake.

Aredhel, still in her riding clothes for some reason, was next, and she plucked a scrap of paper from the hat on the sideboard with supreme confidence. Taking her place in the center of the room she took a deep breath and, with great dignity, drew a finger across her throat and collapsed to the ground. 

It became clear, after a moment of silence, that this was the end of the charade, and we all began shouting out any possible answers that came to mind.

“Marie Antoinette!”

“Sir Walter Raleigh!”

“Cleopatra!”

“Mozart!”

“Why would the answer be Mozart, you madman?”

“I tend to assume Mozart is the answer to everything.”

“You are all  _ completely  _ wrong,” Aredhel declared after some minutes of this. “I was  _ obviously  _ Anne Boleyn.”

“That was as clear as mud, sister dear,” replied Fingon. “Sit down, it’s my turn.” He plucked a slip of paper from the hat and took Aredhel’s place at the front of the room and mimed stabbing himself in the heart before collapsing to the floor, much as his sister had done.

“Caesar!” shouted Maedhros immediately.

Fingon leapt back to his feet, grinning broadly. “Absolutely spot on, old boy! Well done!”

“Now wait a minute,” said Aredhel, pouting. “How did you manage to guess that so quickly when no one at all could figure out mine?”

“Finn and I are two minds with but a single thought,” Maedhros said solemnly. “My turn!”

 

Maedhros did a passable imitation of Napoleon, which Fingon guessed almost immediately, and Maglor would have been quite good as Beethoven had he not started singing and therefore been disqualified. Though I tried to avoid participating myself, I was eventually forced to have a turn with Finrod, and we did quite a reasonable reenactment of Romeo and Juliet. I was, in fact, in quite a good mood as we all dispersed back to our bedrooms to dress for dinner

It is a truth universally acknowledged that nothing can ruin a fellow’s good mood faster than his mother and his most frightening aunt bursting into his bedroom with bloody murder in their eyes.

“Turgon, there you are,” Mum said, blocking the door to my room before I could escape. “We are having a bit of a crisis, I’m afraid. You haven’t seen your Auntie Mirë’s brooch anywhere, have you?”

I knew the brooch in question, of course: a huge, ancient silver thing in the shape of a peacock, studded with sapphires and probably worth a decade’s wages. Perhaps, I thought, someone had melted it down for parts. “Er, no. Should I have?” 

“You see, it’s just as I thought,” said Aunt Mirë shrilly. “We have looked all over the house, and not a sign of it. It  _ must  _ have been stolen, Anairë. There is no other explanation.”

“Well, perhaps,” said Mum. “But we mustn’t be too hasty to accuse anyone.”

“It’s one of the servants, mark my words. And if I had to choose one, I’d point the finger at that little French girl who works for Lady Indis,” Aunt Mirë declared. “She’s no better than she should be.”

“Amarië?” I asked. “Oh, no, I don’t think she’d do this. She seems all right, really.”

“You know that girl?” Aunt Mirë frowned, leaning towards me. “Well, Turukáno, then you tell her that if I don’t have my brooch back by this time tomorrow I will have her sacked, mark my words.”

“But Aunt Mirë, surely…” I stopped as Mum quickly shook her head at me. “All right then. Excuse me, won’t you?”

With that I turned on my heel and fled, hurrying to Finrod’s bedroom and flinging open the door without knocking. My cousin lay on his bed with a book on his lap and a plate of grapes on the nightstand, looking rather like a debauched Roman emperor. 

“Finrod,” I said, as sternly as I could manage. “What did you do?”

“Me?” he asked, eyes wide and innocent. “Nothing at all, my dear chum. Why do you ask?”

“I  _ ask  _ because that brooch you nicked from Aunt Mir ë was a family heirloom and she’s throwing a fit and insisting it must have been stolen by one of the servants.” He looked at me in confusion, and I sighed. “Finrod, your friend, that French girl—Amarië—I’m worried Aunt Mirë might try to have her sacked.”

“What?” Finrod’s eyes were wide with horror. “Did she  _ say  _ that?”

“Well, not in so many words, but she certainly implied it. Where did you stash it? If we bring it back to her immediately and apologize we’ll probably escape with our lives and Amarie’s position intact.”

“You are absolutely right. Silly of me, to think such an idea would ever work.” He stood and strode over to the vanity table, shuffling things around, before looking back at me with a stricken expression. “It’s gone!”

“It’s  _ gone?  _ Are you sure you haven’t just forgotten where you put it?”

“No, it was right here! Someone must have taken it!”

I groaned. “Was someone else involved in this prank at all, might I ask?”

“Well, Amarië lent me the key so I could nick it in the first place, but she hasn’t been involved since. I don’t suppose Aunt Mirë could have found it in here?”

“I doubt it. I only just spoke to her a minute ago. I suppose one of the servants could have picked it up accidentally…”

Finrod ran a hand through his hair, setting his jaw determinedly. “Then I suppose it’s time for some detective work.”

 

We spared no effort in our inquiries, asking every single relative and servant we came across if they’d seen the missing brooch. No one gave any signs that they’d stolen it, but no one seemed to have laid eyes on it all day either. We had no luck whatsoever until, surprisingly, we asked Curufin, who was in the parlor poring over a book entitled  _ Inventions of the Chinese _ . 

“Oh, yes, I’ve seen it,” Curufin said when we inquired, not glancing up from his book. “I was the one who took it.”

“You  _ what?”  _ Finrod exclaimed. “Why on earth would you do such a thing?”

“The pin was wobbly, it needed fixing. So I took it down to the workshop Dad’s set up in the attic to have a look at it. Fixed it in half an hour,  _ you’re welcome. _ ”

“Well, that’s fine then,” I said, sighing in relief. “Where is it? Can we have it back now?”

“Er, well, that’s the thing,” said Curufin, grimacing awkwardly. “I’m not sure where it’s gone. I put it down in the library this afternoon and when I came back it was gone. Someone nicked it, I suppose.”

Finrod let out an anguished noise of frustration. “ _ Again?  _ Curufin, you’re my cousin and I love you, but for heaven’s sakes aren’t you supposed to be clever?”

“Really!” Curufin sniffed, for all the world looking  _ exactly  _ like his father. “Here I am, trying to be helpful, and I don’t even get a dratted ‘thank you.’ See if I ever fix anything of yours again.” Before we could say anything, he slammed the door in our faces.

“Well,” Finrod said. “I suppose that’s some kind of progress, anyway.”

 

Amarië, Finrod, and I met in Finrod’s bedroom after dinner to assess the situation. The overall mood, despite the festival occasion, was fairly grim.

“It is all over for me,” Amarië said dolefully, sipping a glass of red wine that Finrod had nicked from the kitchen. “I will have to go back to Rouen and look after my four little brothers and work in a factory.”

“Now, now, don’t say that, my dear,” said Finrod, patting her on the shoulder. “Turgon and I are on the case, aren’t we, Turgon? We’ll sort out what’s happened. And if the impossible occurs and you  _ are  _ sent back to France, why, I’ll come after you and we’ll get married and buy a farm in Provence.”

Amarië rolled her eyes, though she looked somewhat comforted. “We are too young to get married,  _ cherie.  _ You know this very well.” She glanced over at me, with a hesitant smile, her green eyes wide. “Monsieur Turgon, your cousin tells me you are very clever. I trust you to help me.”

“Oh..ah, quite all right, don’t you know,” I managed, twirling my wineglass nervously in my hands. “I’ll do my best, anyway.”

“All any of us can do, really,” Finrod sighed. “I suppose we ought to start getting ready for Mass at this point. Perhaps if we all light a candle at the church and pray  _ very  _ hard, that brooch will appear out of nowhere, eh?”

I didn’t say it aloud, but privately I thought that to deal with Aunt Mirë we would need an absolute miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I decided most of the Vanyar are French but that's how it be apparently.


	3. Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feanor's out here causing Christmas explosions, as is right and proper.

I wasn’t certain whether the loud booming noise that woke me on Christmas morning was real or part of a dream, but either way I found myself sitting bolt upright in bed as the clock chimed seven. Mere moments later, my door was flung open by my younger brother Argon, who threw himself onto the foot of my bed with gusto.

“Look outside, Turgon!” he exclaimed, bouncing up and down like a much younger child. “It’s snowing!”

Bleary-eyed, I sat up in bed and peered out of the window. Sure enough, there were flakes of some gray-white material floating through the air, though it took me a moment to realize what they were.

“Argon, that’s not snow, it’s ash.”

“Ash?” Argon scrambled over me, nearly knocking me off the bed in his eagerness to see for himself. “Golly, you’re right! How in the dickens did that happen? Has a small volcano exploded nearby?”

“Don’t be silly, Argon, there aren’t any volcanoes in Surrey. There must have been some trouble with the chimneys. But I don’t smell smoke, so the house probably isn’t on fire.”

“Well, get dressed, anyway. I want to make sure the Christmas tree hasn’t burned down.”

The entire family had gathered in the parlor by the time we found our way downstairs, every eye turned towards Uncle Fëanor, who was looking considerably worse for wear. His thick dark hair was standing on end, his face was streaked with soot, and his clothes looked as though he’d been wearing them in a coal mine for weeks. The fireplace behind him appeared to have been the site of a small explosion—which, I realized, must have been the cause of the noise that had awoken me.

“Fëanor,” Granddad was saying sternly as Argon and I slipped into the assembled crowd. “Care to explain what has happened here?”

Uncle Fëanor sighed, wiping at his sooty face with an equally sooty handkerchief. “I was experimenting with a new chemical I’ve developed that is intended to allow the flames in the fireplace to change colors. I believed it would be...festive.”

“Ah.” Granddad raised an eyebrow. “But it does not seem to have worked.”

“That’s just the thing, it  _ did!  _ The flames turned a beautiful crimson for a full thirty seconds. Unfortunately the chemical reaction also appears to have dislodged a year’s worth of ash and soot out of the chimney and sent it heavenwards.”

Granddad blinked, a slow smile spreading across his face, before bursting into hearty laughter. “Good gracious, Fëanor! Even at the celebration of Our Lord’s birth you can’t refrain from causing explosions! What am I going to do with you, boy?”

Uncle Fëanor’s face flushed with humiliation, and I half expected him to throw something or storm out of the room. Instead, his lips quirked into a faint smile. “Perhaps Father Christmas shan’t bring me any gifts this year.”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be an issue,” Granddad said. “After all, you managed not to set the tree on fire. I suppose we should thank you, really; you’ve given us snow on Christmas after all.”

 

The presents as well as the tree had escaped damage, and we were soon sitting amidst a pile of wrapping paper as gifts were opened and politely adMirëd. Everyone fared quite well; Finrod adored the Indian silk handkerchiefs I’d gotten for him, Aredhel was delighted by her new riding helmet from Mum and Dad, and Argon was overjoyed at the miniature pocket-watch Father had given him, declaring himself quite grown up now.

As usual, nearly everyone had given me books, a state of affairs with which I was reasonably content. I was just leafing through the beautiful new atlas I’d received from Finrod when I heard Aunt Mirë exclaim, “Heavens! It’s back!”

Out of the small box in her lap she drew, much to my astonishment, the missing peacock brooch.

“Your brooch!” Mum said. “I say, how lucky! But how on earth did it come to be under the Christmas tree?”

“There’s a note in there along with it,” Aredhel pointed out, peering rudely over Aunt Mirë’s shoulder. “What’s it say, then?”

Clearing her throat, Aunt Mirë read aloud:

 

_ Dear Madame Santos, _

_ Enclosed is the brooch that you lost yesterday. I wish to apologize for what must surely have been a deeply upsetting experience for you, as I know it is a family heirloom. The truth is, I discovered it yesterday in the garden, half-buried in mud. On closer inspection I saw that the pin seemed to have come loose, and so I brought it to young Master Curufin for repairs. It took him slightly longer than expected to fix it, and I did not wish to disturb you as you were getting ready for Mass, so I thought it would be best to return it to you in this manner.  _

_ Merry Christmas and may God bless you. _

_ -Amarië Marie Lavallois _

 

“My goodness!” Granny Indis exclaimed. “How kind of dear Amarië! I always knew she was a thoroughly reliable young lady. You must be so relieved, Mrs. Santos.”

Aunt Mirë looked utterly bewildered. “Well...yes, I suppose I am. Though it really would have been better for her to just give it to me…”

“Well, be fair, Auntie, I expect she was just trying to be discreet,” Aredhel put in. “It’s one of those French things. Anyway, surely the point is that you’ve got it back now? And in much better condition, too!”

“I suppose that is true,” Aunt Mirë said, pursing her lips. She carefully pinned the brooch back in place on her collar and nodded politely at Granny. “You may thank your maid for me, Lady Indis. It was...kind of her, to go to such trouble.”

“Wasn’t it just?” Granny said. “Such a nice girl. I may have to increase her Christmas bonus.”

The rest of this family, thoroughly satisfied with this development, returned to opening presents and chatting. I personally, while pleased that Amarië had escaped being sacked, was thoroughly confused.  _ Had  _ Amarië taken the brooch in the first place? And if so, why hadn’t she told us?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Finrod, his face creased in worry, slipping Aunt Mirë’s note into his pocket.

 

We discovered Amarië in the upstairs sitting room, neatly arranging some of Granny’s books on the shelves. Finrod, to my shock, grabbed her arm without warning and caused her to jump nearly a foot in the air. 

“Monsieur Finrod, you fool! What are you doing?”

“Amarië,” Finrod said quickly, handing her Aunt Mirë’s note. “Have a look at this.”

Amarië took the note and read it, shoulders dropping in relief. “She got it back, then,” she said. “I am safe.”

“So you  _ did  _ take it!” Finrod exclaimed. “But Amarië, darling, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did  _ not  _ take it!” said Amarië. “I ‘ave no idea who wrote this letter, but it was not me. This is not my handwriting, you know this.”

“You’re right, it isn’t,” said Finrod, inspecting the note closely. “I’m not sure whose it is. Turgon?”

I squinted, adjusting my spectacles. “Well, I can’t say for certain. It’s quite messy. But it does remind me a bit of…”

“It was me,” declared Aredhel, flouncing into the room with her new riding helmet perched incongruously on her curly dark hair. She dropped onto the sofa and popped a peppermint in her mouth. “I wrote it.”

All three of us turned to look at her, our mouths hanging open like fish. Finrod was the first to recover. “ _ You  _ did? Bloody hell, Aredhel, why?”

“Well, the short answer is that I thought it would be amusing. And I was right,” Aredhel said.

“And the long answer?”

“The long answer is that I saw it in the library, picked it up, contemplated being a good girl and giving it back to Aunt Mirë, and then realized that would be no fun at all. So after I gave Curufin a good lecture about leaving priceless jewelry about the place—I knew it was him right away, he left it on the shelf where all the science books are—I decided to give our dear auntie the nicest Yuletide gift she’s ever received.”

“But if Curufin knew you had it,” I said, “why didn’t he come and tell us in order to ease our suffering? For that matter, why didn’t  _ you? _ We thought Amarië was going to be sacked!”

“Curufin didn’t tell you because he is a brat,” Aredhel replied promptly. “And I didn’t because...well, truthfully, I didn’t realize what was at stake. I didn’t have the slightest idea that poor Amarië’s job was at risk, for which I truly apologize.”

“But if that is so, mademoiselle,” Amarië said, frowning, “why did you put my name on the letter, may I ask?”

Aredhel grinned. “Because thanks to some very successful eavesdropping over the course of this holiday I discovered that you and darling Finrod are madly in love, and frankly I was a bit concerned that the rest of the family would have objections to him marrying a French maid in a few years. But a French maid who is an absolute heroine and rescues family heirlooms and writes beautiful apology notes—well, I think Uncle Finarfin will consider her a daughter-in-law worth having, don’t you?”

“That is...very kind of you, mademoiselle. But may I ask, how did you know my middle name?”

“Honestly, I didn’t,” said Aredhel. “I just assumed, seeing as you’re French, that Marie had to be in there somewhere. It was between that and Antoinette. Good thing I picked the right one, eh?”

“Aredhel, you absolute madwoman,” Finrod said, shaking his head. “Mad as a hatter, that’s you. But frankly I’m astonished that you would you would do all this for the sake of my future marriage, and so it appears that all I can say is thank you, and that I would assassinate someone for you.”

“Oh, goodie! I have  _ loads  _ of ideas for who you should assassinate. Marjorie Havisham from school springs to mind, and…” She noticed my glare, and stopped. “Anyway. No trouble at all, old boy. Turgon, let’s pop off and leave these two lovebirds in peace, eh?”

“Your plan might have backfired, you know,” I told her as we left the room. “Aunt Mirë might have been furious and still tried to have Amarië sacked.”

“Nonsense, that never would have happened,” Aredhel said confidently. “Even if Aunt Mirë had been annoyed, Granny Indis adores Amarië and will take her side in just about anything. Why, I’ll bet that if we put it to her in the right way she’d let Finrod and Amarië get married tomorrow.”

“Goodness, I hope not. I do love Finrod but he is not nearly mature enough to be a husband and father.”

“Whereas you, my dear brother, were born to be a father. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were born wearing spectacles. Now let’s head down to the kitchen, I’ve heard rumors about some leftover plum pudding.”


	4. Epilogue: Boxing Day

Every Boxing Day, it is tradition for the entire family to put on our Sunday best and go about the village inflicting Christmas carols on the unfortunate locals. I had suggested several times that we let Fingon, Finrod, and Maglor be our ambassadors, as they actually  _ enjoyed  _ singing in public, but Granny and Granddad were very insistent that we all be subjected to the same humiliation.

Much to our delight, when we headed out in the evening a few flakes of snow ( _ not  _ ash this time, as Argon gleefully pointed out) were drifting down from the sky. The ground was still too warm and wet for the snow to pile up, but the atmosphere was charming nonetheless, and it was sweet to see the youngest children running about trying to catch the flakes on their tongues.

“Why do you suppose it is,” I asked Fingon as we made our way down the road, snowflakes dusting our hair, “that the villagers put up with our caterwauling year after year? After over two decades of this nonsense you’d think they’d be ready to set up the guillotine by now.”

“Because we’re so incredibly talented, of course!” said Fingon. I raised an eyebrow, and he grinned. “Well, that, and everyone around here adores Granddad, you know. He’s quite a pillar of the community. I really can’t think what we’d do without him, can you?”

I tried, for a moment, to imagine our family without Granddad, and found that it was rather like trying to picture the Earth without the sun. “No, you’re quite right. I really can’t.”

 

Whatever their reasons for tolerating our presence (I suspected a lack of other entertainment, as well as respect for Granddad), everyone in the village seemed genuinely pleased to see us. They applauded politely after each song, pinched the children’s cheeks, shook Granddad’s hand, and rewarded our efforts with whatever festive spirits they happened to have. At nearly half the houses we visited, we were served some sort of homemade elderberry wine concoction, which was strong enough to burn my throat and leave my head spinning (I did not, of course, indulge nearly as much as my cousins).

Aunt Mirë caught up with me on the walk home, her face nearly hidden by a heavy fur muffler. When she tugged it down slightly, I was surprised to see that she was smiling.

“Ah, Turgon. Keeping warm?”

“You called me by my English name,” I said, bewildered. “Are you all right, Auntie?”

Aunt Mirë nodded. “Quite all right, my dear. I was chatting with your mother earlier, and she suggested I might like to start calling you by whatever name you prefer. She was quite insistent about it, in fact. I’m glad that all these years living in England haven’t completely robbed Anaire of her spirit.”

“Frankly, I don’t think twenty years in Botany Bay could rob Mum of her spirit,” I said. “But I do think she enjoys having you here. She does often say how much she wishes we could come visit the rest of the family in India more often.”

“Well, perhaps your mother will be able to see more of me, at least,” said Aunt Mirë. “I have decided to spend some time with my late husband’s family in Lisbon. So I will be nearby, for the next few months.”

“How nice,” I said, with perfect sincerity. While I still was hesitant about spending weeks in my aunt’s company, I rather liked the idea of spending the summer holidays in Portugal, and made a mental note to mention it to Mum. “Listen, Aunt Mirë. About the peacock brooch…”

“Ah, yes. Your mother thinks I overreacted considerably. She is right, I suppose. But it is a family heirloom, you know, and it’s very precious to me. I must say, that Frech maid of your grandmother’s is a much more responsible young woman than I gave her credit for. Your sister says she is planning to open a millinery shop someday?”

“Er...yes, I believe so.”

“Interesting. I will have to see if I know any London milliners in need of an apprentice.” She looked down at the ground, then awkwardly patted me on the shoulder. “You’ve grown into quite a nice young man, Turu...Turgon. I look forward to having you visit me in Lisbon.”

“Thank you, Auntie,” I said, genuinely touched. “I look forward to that as well.”

Aunt Mirë nodded and bustled off to speak to Mum, and I drifted over towards Finrod, Fingon, Maedhros, and Maglor, who were huddled close together and whispering intently. Finrod, spotting me, detached himself from the ground and slung an arm over my shoulder, a rather soppy grin on his face (clearly, he’d had more of the elderberry wine than I had).

“You lot are quiet,” I said. “Are your throats sore from showing off?”

“I resent that,” Finrod said loftily. “But no, as it happens, we’re plotting what to do to celebrate the New Year. The old folks are having a soiree here, of course, but that won’t be any fun. We’re torn between taking over the village pub or sneaking off to London to do some proper carousing. What do you think?”

“I think,” I replied, “that I’m going to see if Aunt Mirë will let me come to Portugal with her for the New Year. I’ve had quite enough carousing for one lifetime. And mind you, don’t you go having such a good time that you forget all about poor Amarië.”

“As if I ever could!” Finrod cried. “Where she goes, my heart goes with her. I couldn’t forget her if I tried.”

I attempted to conceal the flicker of jealousy I felt at my cousin’s overwhelming happiness, but apparently I was unsuccessful, as Finrod’s face softened in sympathy.

“Turgon,” he said gently. “Are you perhaps worried about not having a sweetheart of your own yet?”

“Of course not!” I exclaimed. Finrod gave me one of those searing looks he was so good at, and I sighed. “Well, a bit, perhaps. I mean, it’s not such a surprise—I’m not charming like you or Fingon, or talented like Maglor, or handsome like Maedhros—but it  _ would  _ be nice to find love eventually, and I’m not sure I will.”

Finrod shook his head. “Turgon, my dear chap, I can’t think where you get these ideas. Firstly, I think plenty of girls find you good-looking; after all, you’re tall and dark and intellectual, and ladies love that. And secondly, you are clever and noble and honorable and kind, which are far more important than being showy. You’ll make some sweet, pretty girl fall head over heels for you and have a whole brood of children, see if you don’t.”

“Well, I certainly hope you’re right. Until then, I’ll just have to settle for being the mature one among you lot.”

“Ah, Turgon,” said Finrod. “When will you learn? You needn’t be mature for us to love you. Now, shall we have one last carol?” 

I glanced over at the other lads, who looked back at me with undisguised eagerness. “All right,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Let’s have  _ The Twelve Days of Christmas,  _ shall we?”

“Brilliant choice!” Finrod waved his finger in the manner of a conductor’s baton, and we all began to sing.

_ On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me _

_ A partridge in a pear tree... _


End file.
